


Evening, Night, and Morning from the Portugeuse

by Anonymous



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Kidfic, Multi, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-03
Updated: 2008-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:40:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three scenes (in Glasgow) from the Portuguese.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evening, Night, and Morning from the Portugeuse

**Author's Note:**

> If [Junie](http://juniper200.livejournal.com) and [Dove](http://hija_paloma.livejournal.com) are the same person, as they claim, I refuse to write two separate birthday presents; hence, this piece, for their collective natal celebration. Research assistance was ably provided by [Melusina](fabu.livejournal.com), and the heavy betawork was all [Sushi](http://vegetariansushi.livejournal.com).

"You love him like breathing," she says, when Jack has finally latched on and the wince has faded from her face, his tiny, dimpled fingers kneading her breast. Billy shakes his head, his eyes never leaving their son.

"I love Dom like breathing," he says, correcting her. "I love Jack like brain waves."

"What do you mean?" she asks.

"Could survive, for years, on a ventilator," he explains, "but without the brain activity—there's nothin'. No..." he waves a hand. "No _soul_."

The smile he gives her is the little grin that makes his face look elfin. She's a sucker for that grin, she is, for the Billy who's smart and funny and charming, and best of all, who knows it. "And me?" she asks.

"Ah, Ali, you're like skin. You hold me together, and warm and beautiful."

It's the perfect answer. She doesn't think she's ever been happier—or more exhausted; when Billy leans forward, his mouth tastes like marshmallow fluff, soft and sweet, like sleep. "Make me a fluff toastie?" she says, shifting her grip on Jack so her arm doesn't fall asleep. Her entire body is crying out for rest, but if only one limb gets it, that's worse, not fair at all.

Billy looks at her, scandalized. "I thought the cravings were supposed to be _over_," he protests.

"I'll do it," Dom offers, leaning in, and Ali nearly jumps up in surprise.

"Dominic fucking Monaghan!" Billy shouts, as he scrambles off the couch. "Dominic _fucking_ Monaghan."

"Love you too, Bill," Dom says, as Billy barrels into him, and they embrace. He manages to say, as all the air huffs out of his lungs with the impact of thirteen stone of Boyd, "In order, what do you think, begged and pleaded, and yes."

"What?" Billy says, shaking his head. "What are you doing here, you daftie?"

"What do you _think_," Dom repeats, and Ali looks up from where she's soothing Jack (who doesn't really seem to need it; he's far more interested in her tit than in the noise), a giggle beginning to work its way out of her chest.

"How'd you get the time off, you were just talking about having a dozen new pages a day?"

"Begged and pleaded," Dom says, grinning, clearly pleased with himself, before dropping into a woebegone expression, his eyes huge and liquid and his lower lip prominent.

"Ah, Dom," Billy sighs, and wraps him up in a hug again. "Were you serious about getting Ali that fluff toastie? She'll consider you her slave ever after if you do it once, you know."

"Yes," Dom says, and the giggle bursts out of Ali. _That_ disturbs Jack, at least the vibration of her breast does, and she quells her snickers to turn her attention to him again. "Hello, Ali."

"I want a hug too," she says, looking up and fluttering her lashes.

"With your son's father standing right here?" Dom gasps, pressing a hand to his cheek, his eyes widening until she can see the white all the way around (she always tells him that's disgusting, makes him look like an alien freak, and he always does it anyway). "I'm shocked and appalled, Alison Marie McKinnon, you _tart_."

She gets her fluff toastie, and a hug, and a present of some appallingly cute booties with grasshoppers embroidered on. Jack, when he finishes the engaging business of eating, is just as fascinated by Dom as his father was, years ago, and Dom gets over his wariness of the tiny, fragile body in his arms almost instantly.

"Almost makes me want an ankle-biter of my own," he says, staring at Jack's face, watching the expressions that flit across it. Ali smiles, remembering how she did the same at first, amazed that he was suddenly so real, so surprisingly heavy in her arms, and how he instantly became more than just 'the baby'; he was _Jack_, with Jack's personality and features.

"You can't have him," Billy says promptly.

"Be nice," she admonishes, tugging a little harder on the hair she's playing with. Billy yelps and squirms, pushing his head into her thigh a little harder.

"You wouldn't deny your best mate anything, would you, William?" Dom says, not looking up.

"You've already got your tarantulas and your cicadas and your god-alone-knows-what," Billy protests. "You don't need my son."

"And your little dog too!" Dom says, pitching his voice up an octave. Jack, startled, lets out a cry like an out-of-tune bagpipe, and Dom jumps. "Sorry," he mumbles, flushing, and hands him off to Billy without any objection.

"'S all right," Ali says around a yawn. "He does that. Babies do that."

"You didn't break him," Billy adds, and starts to hum. Jack's body begins to relax into sleep almost instantly—he loves Billy's singing—and Dom sighs.

If this is what being a grown-up is like, Ali is pretty sure she likes it. To have Billy singing next to her, Dom sprawled in the plaid armchair they've had forever and can't remember how they got, his feet up on the endtable, is pretty damn wonderful.

"Oh, God," she mumbles. "I must be tired if I'm capable of thinking that."

"What?" Dom asks.

"Just—nothing. Stupid things."

"Go to bed," Billy says, half singing, still. "I'll put him down for the night."

"Not yet," she says. "I will, soon." Billy smiles at her, still cradling Jack, and she smiles back. "You want to tell him now?" she asks, a moment later, tilting her head toward Dom's slumped form.

"Now, Ali," Dom drawls. "I think he's a bit young for the birds and the bees just yet." For the first time, she realizes how tired Dom looks, how creased and rumpled his shirt and khakis are, and feels a stab of remorse for not even offering tea, or a beer—but he knows where the kitchen is if he really wants something to drink, and it's not as if she's expected to be hostess for _Dom_, of all people.

"Oh, shut it," Billy says. "Ali—"

She nods. "You," she says. This is Billy's to tell—well, ask, but she's certain that Dom won't say no.

"Dom," he starts, and Dom's eyes widen.

"I didn't do it!" he blurts, and the serious moment breaks up in Ali's giggles. It's only seconds later that Dom's snickers join hers, and finally Billy begins to chuckle, the affront to his dignity forgotten. "And if I did," Dom gasps a moment later, "you can't prove it."

Sometimes, it is appallingly easy to grab the joke and run with it, Ali thinks, as she manages to say, wheezing, "The results of the blood test came back yesterday."

"Bills'n I've the same blood type, that doesn't mean anything," Dom says immediately.

"Do you?" she asks, actually distracted for a moment.

"Sure. Type O," Billy says, and his voice has changed to a bizarre accent; it takes her a moment to place it. She buries her face in her hands, almost in hysterics, trying desperately to repress the image of Billy in Tony Curtis's outfits in _Some Like It Hot._

She hasn't had sex in almost a month, it's not her fault that thought is strangely hot. She's seen Dom with makeup on many times, she can't be blamed for instantly thinking of him with a rose in his teeth, being dipped by some old man in a Florida dance hall. "Oh, God," she says.

"I'm reconsidering this," Billy agrees.

"Reconsidering what?" Dom asks, manfully suppressing his unmanly giggles. He cocks his head, the dirty blond spikes of his hair falling into his eyes.

"Godfather," Billy says absently, checking that Jack is still asleep. "Oh, _shite_."

She's somehow not surprised. Billy and Dom have never been able to keep secrets from one another. She's just glad that Billy can't keep secrets from her, either, and glad that she's never been able to mind Dom's inclusion in what would normally be private things.

"Uh," Dom says.

"Smooth, Billy," she says. "Come on, Dom, godfather? Please?"

"Uh," Dom repeats.

"Wrong answer."

"Uh, sure," he says, and the panic in his eyes is beginning to fade, replaced with pleasure and excitement. "Yes. Absolutely! It'll be fun!"

"It's not prank-calling Astin, you know," Billy warns darkly.

"'Course not. I'll teach him all the really important things. How to pick up girls—"

"He's a bit young for that," Ali says, and claps a hand over her mouth. They definitely picked the right man for the job, she thinks. Poor Jack, he'll have to have all the same arguments with his godfather and his dad and his mum.

"Can't start too early," Billy points out.

"With Billy as his father, and me teachin' him the ropes," Dom agrees, jamming his hands into his hair, "he'll need to begin young. He'll be the—"

"Child thrown out of primary school for trying to pick up the teacher?" she suggests.

"Exactly." He looks proud at the thought.

Ali doesn't mind the two-am feeding overmuch; Billy sleeps like the dead, so she doesn't worry about waking him, and when she creeps into Jack's room, she likes the thought that her breasts ache for a reason. She likes feeling as though her body has a purpose beyond dance—she's been ruining her feet and punishing her muscles all her life, and for what? The pleasure of strangers, Nureyev said, but the pain of labor (thank god for drugs, her memory's blurred, but she knows it fucking hurt) and the weight of fatigue (how do single mothers do it? She's halfway to crazy already, and Bill is about as hands-on and involved as a man could be) and the residual soreness, all of it, feels worth it when she and Jack sit in the dark, wrapped in her old apple-print quilt, rocking slowly, and she gets to talk to him.

But tonight, Dom has already taken Jack out of his bassinet by the time she gets down the hall. "Jet lag," he whispers. "Wasn't asleep."

She holds out her arms. "He's hungry, poor lad," she explains, and Dom surrenders the weight to her. She sits in the chair, and Jack's cries settle into whimpers; already he's used to the routine. Dom isn't, and makes a startled noise when she pops the buttons on her nightie.

There's no point bothering with finesse, ordinarily; there's no one to see her, normally, and she's not going to change her habits for Dom. She looks him in the eye and a small smile flits across his face.

"No," she says, before he can ask. "You're not intruding."

He shakes his head. "Wasn't going to ask that," he says, softly still. "I know that." She hisses between her teeth as Jack latches on, closing her eyes for a moment. "Are you—?" Dom says, a little louder, concern clear in his voice, even though she can barely see his face in the dark, and not at all with her lids clenched shut.

"Fine," she says. "Hurts at first." She breathes deeply, waiting for the twinge to ease, trying not to resent Jack for doing something painful to her over and over and over again and keeping her constantly sleep-deprived, as she lets the oxygen seep into her blood, and holds tight to the knowledge that this too shall pass.

"I didn't know that," Dom says.

"You'd best learn, then, hadn't you?" she says, able to form full sentences again, with the pain seeping away and the curious, warm feeling beginning, the one she's never been able to name or describe properly.

"Guess so," Dom says, and learns forward to kiss her full on the mouth. She opens her lips, and if anyone asked (no one ever will), she wouldn't be able to say if she feels full, her skin almost unable to contain herself, or empty, milk and love leaving her body in equal proportion, weightless with happiness or gravid with expectation.

"Mmmm," she murmurs, feeling the pressure of Dom's and Jack's mouths, the twin sensations sweeping down her throat and into her chest. It's echoing somewhere behind her ribs, under her collarbone. "Must be what an orgy feels like." She wouldn't have said that if it weren't dark in the room and if it weren't two in the morning, but Dom laughs against her mouth, and she presses her tongue against the backs of his teeth. He goes on kissing her, and his hands stay steady on Jack's back.

Dom is an amazing kisser. An _amazing_ kisser; he makes jokes with his tongue, writes love letters on the roof of her mouth, opens her throat and lungs up with his breath. She lets herself just enjoy his mouth, the stale taste of him; she's never cataloged the way he kisses differently from Bill, but she's never needed to.

But it's a little awkward, her in the rocking chair, him bent over; it's got to be hell on his neck, even with her face tipped up as it is, and she draws back. "You all right?" she murmurs.

Dom shrugs. "Stiff," he admits, rubbing the small of his back. She's almost relieved to hear it—when Dom will admit to being in pain, of any kind, she's doesn't have to worry about his stupid stubborn English stiff-upper-lip _bullshit_; she never ever wants to go through what they refer to only obliquely as 'the Los Angeles episode' again.

"I'd rub you," she says, "but I've got a ten-pound infant to take care of first. Plus, that always leads to sex, and I can't rub you for however long that's gonna be." She makes a face. She knows perfectly well why that prohibition is in place, but Dom's surely not going to stay for as long as she suspects she'll need, and she really can't be expected to wait another six months, can she?

Dom settles onto the rag rug at her feet, twisting into a yoga asana. "Hunh?"

"No sex until the stitches come out," she explains.

"Why would..." Dom says in confusion, resting his chin on her knee. "Was there some sort of problem, or summat?"

She shakes her head, but glances up as the shadows of the hallway shift; Billy's leaning on the doorframe. His hair is sticking up in tufts and he's rubbing his face with one hand. "No," he says around a yawn. "Just, Jack apparently got Ali's dad's genes. Gonna have shoulders like a stuntie."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah," Ali says. "I mean, I'm not sure it makes any sense, but yeah. There was—" she shrugs. "Apparently the tear was pretty bad. So my ob/gyn is, you know. Nervous."

"Christ," Dom says.

"What, were you planning on getting laid?" she teases.

"Yeah," he admits.

Silence falls.

"Oh," Ali says.

Bill clears his throat.

Dom is probably blushing, but it's too dark to tell; when Billy says, "I, uh, I haven't given birth recently," he twists his head so fast that he flops over, thumping his elbow.

"Ow," he mutters. "You—you'd do that?"

"Give birth?" Billy says. Dom untangles himself and waves a loose fist vaguely in Billy's direction, but he's grinning. Ali's pretty sure she hears a muttered "Bastard," as Billy adds, "''Sides, you're pretty good at it. I'm better, but you're not bad."

"I am not arbitrating this," Ali says, as Dom opens his mouth. They are both pretty good at it; different, but good different. By now, it's mostly worked out that when they're together, Billy fucks Dom and Dom fucks her, and she gets to do whatever she wants. Everything else has changed, why not this?

It's not a rule, never has been, and when Bill grins at her, she smiles back. The romantic (ish) moment is lost as she yawns, a great jaw-cracking yawn, and then starts swearing as the tight muscles of her neck and back protest. Bill comes around to the other side of her chair and begins to rub his thumbs along the tops of her shoulders. "Buggerfuck ow," she says calmly, and then, "_Ouch_!"

Dom scrambles to his feet. "What?" he says, a bit frantically.

"Fucking _bit_ me," she says. "_Stop that_."

"Bites the tit that feeds him?" Dom offers, and Billy snickers before he catches himself. He presses deeper into her muscles, and she groans softly. It's painful, but the good kind of pain, the kind that she loves, the kind that promises relief from itself.

"Fuck you," she says without heat.

"That'd be me who should say that," Dom says, "and not to you." He's grinning, teeth exposed, eyes crinkled up. This is the grin the photographers never get, the Billy-and-Ali grin.

Billy sighs deeply and his hands drop from her shoulders. "Later?" he says. "I don't think I'd be able to do a damn thing but lie there and think of Scotland, Dom."

"Jesus, you sound more like Queen Victoria every day," Dom says, and she just knows that Billy's flipping him off with both hands, and this—this is as close to perfect happiness as she's ever been.

It's much later, sunlight falling in stripes on the bedroom carpet, that she wakes to the sight of Dom and Billy making out like teenagers. She's sprawled luxuriously over a good two-thirds of the bed (the eternal mystery, how someone as small as she can take up so much space; she always blames Madame Rossovich, who taught her how to 'own the stage, dahling!'), and she sighs before squirming beneath the quilt.

She can hear the soft, wet sounds of Dom's kisses and Billy's response, and she pushes a fold of cloth off her face so she can watch. Dom's face is in shadow, his hair lit at the edges, and he'd look as though he has a halo if she didn't know damn well that no saint ever stuck his tongue that far down anyone's throat.

And Billy looks like nothing so much as a whore, his shirt off, the pale skin of his back already marked by Dom's fingernails, his head thrown back so's Dom can lick the tendons of his throat, and sweet _jesus_, the sounds he's making.

Dom lifts his head and looks at her; she smiles. He grins back and reaches down to adjust himself. "Want to watch," she almost says, still emerging out of the currents of sleep, but Dom's already pushing Billy toward her.

"Thought you'd never wake up," Billy says, and kisses her. That wakes her up, all right.

He tugs the blanket aside, and while the room is warm, it's colder than the air under the covers. Her breasts are ridiculously sensitive to temperature these days, but it's a shock to feel her reaction as swift as it is.

"Been waiting for you," Dom adds, and she can just hear him over the sound of blood in her ears and the soft whimpers—are they hers? they seem to be—Billy is coaxing from hidden, half-forgotten crevices in her mouth. She's dimly aware of Dom's hands sliding over her legs, lifting her hips a little, and then, softly, solicitously, "Did you sleep well?"

Bloody Englishman, and she pulls her mouth from Bill's to smile brightly. "Yes, thank you, except for the crying infant and the lewd insinuations," she says.

"Good," Dom replies. "Then you won't mind me ravishing your man in front of you."

"Not at all," she says generously, and waves a hand.

Billy splutters. "Ravishin'!" he says. "I never consented to no ravishing!" Ali tips her chin up. "Well, maybe a little ravishing wouldn't be out of place," he concedes, a bare second later.

"Thought so." Dom looks, again, entirely too pleased with himself, but the smug expression vanishes as he begins, indeed, to ravish Bill.

The best part is the way they manage to focus on each other and still include her, she thinks, as Billy's hand clutches at her hip. It's she who flips open the astroglide, it's Dom who rubs his slick fingers over Billy's skin, and Billy's gasping, her name and Dom interspaced in the broken pleas.

Dom wrenches his fingers away from Billy and twists to slide his tongue into Ali's mouth. "Good morning," he mumbles against her mouth, and she almost laughs, kissing him as hard as she can, lying flat on her back; he's got all the leverage, but it's all right. God, what a glorious mess they are. "All right?" he asks.

"Yeah," she says. Understatement of the fucking century, because Billy's on his knees, and leans over, his hands settling by her shoulders.

"Ali," he manages to say, as his eyes focus on her, the pupils blurred, his mouth wet.

"Yeah," she whispers. She looks over Billy's shoulder to where Dom is still kneeling. "Fuck him," she says, and uses her own thighs to nudge Billy's legs apart.

It doesn't get better than this, she knows, watching Dom's expression soften as he eases himself in; she knows what this feels like, knows exactly what's making Billy drop his head forward and gasp and moan like that, and she knows what it's like to have Billy say her name and whisper _please_, as if the words were one and the same.

It's the three of them. How could it get better?

She realizes how when Billy's flopped on top of her, still breathing hard, still with an expression of beatitude on his face, and Dom has cuddled his head into the join of her neck and shoulder, and twined his legs with hers. Jack's thin cry drifts into the room, and they all three groan in unison.

Okay, not better, exactly, because she really really wants to lie there with Dom and Billy and inhale the scent of sex and Dom's hair and listen to the rasp in Billy's breathing that he always gets when he's been begging, but there's really nothing like the moment when she smiles, hearing Jack, lying in Dom and Billy's arms.

She can feel every damn cell in her lungs (love him like breathing) and the sharpened awareness that motherhood seems to have granted her (love Jack like brain waves), and her skin is sparkling. She wouldn't trade this for anything, anything at all, thanks.


End file.
